by Marjorie Knapp
She woke before the sun. She heard the still
Small sounds which whisper when the night is gone.
Though all the curtains of her room were drawn,
She saw the gray light creep across the sill.
This was her day. How would it help fulfill
Her destiny? She looked out at the dawn
Stepping across the velvet of the lawn,
She saw the purple of a distant hill.
In cloak and slippers, she glided through the halls
Softly – she would disturb none still asleep –
Then looked through maple branches to the sky;
Her small heart beating against its delicate walls,
The marvel of ten years too much to keep.
“What is this lovely world, and who am I?”